A Killer with a Heart

Being approached by an old British man flanked by two kinkishly hot Asian twins in a seedy bar doesn't exactly bode well in any situation, but after drinking alone for a couple hours I wasn't in any state of mind to realize what was going on. It was the night after a particularly difficult mission, see, and I was fruitlessly attempting at drinking the horrors of what I had done away when they approached me. I had just tapped the bar again with my knuckles, wordlessly requesting another shot, when they slid into the stools around me.

"How would you like to improve your life exponentially?" I turned with a smirk at the deep British tones whispered into my ear.

"Sorry, Dumbledore," I told him with a roll of my eyes upon sighting his grey hair, "I'm probably one of the few girls here without a daddy kink. You're barking up the wrong tree." The old man chuckled lowly while shaking his head.

"You're drinking like someone who wishes to forget their lives for a night," he commented as he leaned against the bar.

"Make yourself at home," I mumbled with another roll of my eyes. I downed my shot and tapped the grimy, splintered bar once more. I shoved my fried hair away from my face as the barkeep poured me another shot of tequila, glancing at me wearily.

"Ira," he said, "maybe you should slow down a bit. Want me to call you a cab?"

"Don't worry about me, Sammy," I told him with a smile. "When I want a cab I'll let you know." Samuel Edwards, the owner of the bar and a childhood friend of mine, smirked at me and reached underneath the bar.

"At least eat something," he requested. I stared pointedly at him, and stuffed my face full of stale pretzels. He gave a slight laugh before turning away from me and drifting towards another patron closer to the door.

"You haven't answered my question, Ira Sool," the old guy said, causing me to turn questioningly at him.

"Who said that was my name,” I asked as I threw back the shot. I sighed, my face sufficiently flushed and my vision swimming. My brain felt like it was swimming in some placid lake, not sitting securing in my skull. Still, I eyed up the man out of my peripheral. No suit jacket, no easy access to a hidden gun. Either he wasn’t armed or he didn’t care about leaning down and pulling a piece from his pants.

“I've been watching you,” the British man explained with a smile. “You're very interesting. A killer for hire with a heart; you're a walking oxymoron.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Professor,” I told him, keeping my tone light as I forced out my best attempt at a British accent, “but I really must be going. I’m running late for potions, and you know how—”

“Ms. Sool,” the man interrupted, reaching towards his back pocket and pulling out a faded leather wallet, “my employer would like to be in contact with you regarding quite the lucrative proposal. I assure you this is very real, and it is very much worth your time to be up promptly at six o’clock tomorrow morning.” He opened his wallet and produced a business card. He offered it to me, but I only blinked at it once. He laughed under his breath and placed it face down onto the bar.

“Choose wisely, Ms. Sool,” he said as he stood, his two lackeys flanking him on either side immediately. “We hope to see you in the morning.” He offered me a thin, soulless smile, and he walked out. I stared after him, my lips pursed as I glanced between his back and the card. I waited thirty-five seconds after he disappeared through the foggy glass door before picking up the card with my nails.

I didn’t bother hiding the surprised expression at seeing the name and logo on the card.

… Yeah, looking back on it, I definitely should’ve just taken the bullet that would have surely come for me in exchange for ignoring the meeting over going.